


Paradise

by vanishingbyler



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Post-The Death Cure, M/M, Newt survives, theres no triggers its p much just soft and gay, uhhhh how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:50:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13551537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishingbyler/pseuds/vanishingbyler
Summary: “He's dead too, isn't he?”





	Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> this is based off the movie bc its far too long since i read the tdc book and two days since i saw the film lmao
> 
> basically i cried for 45 minutes in the cinema very loudly and went straight home to rewrite the ending so the loml didnt die lmao
> 
> this is kinda messy but its basically just an emotion dump and it ends up newtmas which is how all the best things end

The light is blinding when Thomas opens his eyes. His surroundings are bright, unfamiliar. It reminds him a little of the Glade, but logic tells him that that's far in his past. 

 

He feels a pain in his stomach. He looks around, sees a cabinet with some medicines and a glass of water, a stack of bandages and wound dressings, and he remembers. The bullet. The blood. The serum. The look on Theresa’s face as she fell, the air of finality that that look gave. She was gone. Knowing his luck, so was Newt, and all this pain was for nothing. 

 

He sits up cross legged on the bed, and he lets himself cry. Only a little, at first, a tear or two leaking down his cheeks like raindrops on a car window racing to reach the bottom first. Then it's more, an uncontrollable stream of sobs coupled with gasping breaths and raspy screams. The curtain that acts as a door shifts, and a figure walks in. Thomas doesn't, can't, look up. He feels the bed dip beside him, and an arm around him. A voice comes next, soft, soothing. It reassures him, promises him that he's going to be okay. 

 

Eventually, the need to breathe overpowers the emotion and he raggedly pulls in some air. He sits up straight, blinks the tears away. He's still a mess.

 

The person beside him is Brenda. 

 

She's still muttering, urging him to calm down before he makes himself sick. He lets out another sob, and buries his face in her shoulder. 

 

She holds him for a while. It could've been five minutes, it could've been five hours. He isn't sure. The only certainty for him right now was that he was scared. 

 

“Thomas? I brought you something to drink.”

 

He takes it thankfully, not questioning it. It's hot, bitter, and creamy- he recognises the taste but can't quite place it. It's nice. 

 

“Thank you.” He murmurs, clutching the warm cup like a lifeline.   
“How are you feeling?”  
He sighs. “She's dead.”  
“Yeah. But she died saving you.”  
“But she still died.”  
“Thomas, we can't save everyone.” She hesitates for a moment. “Did you love her?”

 

Thomas splutters, the drink dribbling down his chin and his cheeks flood red. He didn't. Loved her like a sister, maybe, but not in the way Brenda is thinking. 

 

Brenda looks him up and down, inquisitive, and steadies herself to ask her next question. 

 

“What about Newt? Do you love him?”

 

His breath catches in his throat and he averts his eyes. He doesn't know if he's ready to say it out loud, even though he knows she's right. It's just hard. 

 

He tries his best to conjure an image of Newt at his best. Was it the boyish, fluffy haired boy he first met years ago, with a glint in his eye and a semi-permanent smile usually aimed at Thomas? Or the Newt who, just a few weeks ago, was sleeping on Thomas’s shoulder in the bedroom of their makeshift home, infected but not yet showing symptoms? The boy with messy hair who sat up by the light of a small torch to write stories and plans on scrap paper, long past when they should both be asleep?

 

Truth is, most versions of Newt are the best version. Any time he isn't angry, delirious, coughing up blood into Thomas’s chest, unable to make his beautiful eyes focus, that's his best. The only time he hasn't been perfect to Thomas is when he's so sick that his life is at risk. 

 

“He's dead too, isn't he?”  
“What? No! You saved him, Thomas. You and Teresa got the cure.”  
“I took way too long, there's no way. Don't fuck with me about this, Bren.”  
“Calm down, shank, I’m not fucking with you. The stuff we stole from WCKD was a temporary fix until you got back to us, and the serum Teresa made with your blood killed the virus. You did it.”  
“So he's… he's alive?”  
“Yeah. He's in a medi-tent over there.” She says, featuring vaguely outside their tent. “Are you ready to answer my question now?”

 

Thomas avoids the subject, scrambling to his feet and limping towards the entrance. Brenda hurries to his side, supporting his weight as he stumbles a little. She doesn't push him further to answer, just carries his weight outside and across the uneven ground to where Newt’s medi-tent stands.

 

Thomas is somewhat aware of the utopia they appear to have arrived at. He takes notice of the tents, rolling waves, and green trees. He sees that it’s bright, and homely, and there’s a roaring fire with a hoard of teenagers surrounding it. He wants to bask in it, drink in the knowledge that they’ve finally made it to the haven that for so long has seemed utterly intangible, but all he can think of is Newt.

 

The tent is personalised. There’s a hunk of wood above the entryway with “NEWTON” carved into it in bold letters, fierce and strong and proud. Glancing round, Thomas clocks that nowhere else has a name above the door, and it warms his heart to think Newt is special.

 

“Can I go in alone?”

 

Brenda smiles warmly and nods as she pushes the curtain aside, and Thomas hobbles inside. Newt looks peaceful. There’s a med-jack hovering over him that Thomas doesn’t recognise- he figures it’s one of the kids they'd been saving along the way. 

 

The kid seems to recognise him, smiles respectfully and scurries out of the tent. Thomas collapses to the seat beside Newt’s bed. He’s sleeping. Thomas is relieved to see that all his symptoms appear to have vanished- the black veins and sunken eyes that devoured his soft features previously had faded to nothing, living Newt basking in his natural youthful glow. There was a gentle smile on his face as his stupidly long eyelashes fluttered. His eyes blinked open, and seeing how normal they looked compared to their bloodshot, fearful glaze the last time Thomas stared into them.

 

“Hey, Tommy.” he mumbles weakly, his voice tired.  
Thomas chokes out a tearful laugh and takes Newt’s spindly hand in his. “Newt.”

 

He smiles as Newt squeezes his hand, and bows his head to rest on Newt’s chest. He feels the boy’s arm come round to stroke his hair and a smiles spreads across his face as he feels the familiar warmth.

 

He sits back up. “How you feeling?”   
“Absolutely bloody awful.” he murmurs with a croak. “Like I caught an incurable virus that stripped me of my personality and put me at the brink of death.”   
“You’re getting better, though.”   
“Because of you. They told me what you did, Tommy. Thank you.”

 

They proceed to sit in silence while Thomas strokes Newt’s hand affectionately, the sounds of the island’s new residents whooping, running around, and just generally living well filling the air. They felt a long way from the Glade.

 

Thomas thinks about the pendant Newt gave him, the small glass bottle on a string that had something inside. He hasn’t opened it yet, for obvious reasons. Dying sort of got in the way.

 

He slides his hand gently from Newt’s and the British boy’s dark eyes track Thomas’ movements. He reaches into his pocket and removes the pendant. As he’s about to pop the cap off, a hand reaches over and stops him. Newt takes the bottle and eases it into his own pocket, movements slow and precise.

 

“Don’t.”   
“Why not?”   
“I wrote a letter to you when I thought I was going to die. It’s very dramatic, very emotional, and you don’t need it. If I’m going to live now, most of the words don’t matter and the ones that do can be said in person.”   
“So say them.”   
“Wait. I’ll tell you when the time's right. Neither of us are ready yet.”

 

Thomas wants to protest, almost goes to say something, in fact, but the sincerity in Newt’s eyes tells him not to question it. He helps Newt sit up and they wander outside together. They spot Minho and Brenda around the campfire and they go to join them. Thomas sits first, and Newt eases himself down beside him. They’re close together, their hips and knees connected, and New brings his head to rest upon Thomas’ shoulder, leaning into the crook of his neck like he belongs there. Minho smiles at the two of them, and Brenda rolls her eyes. Everyone knows the two feel for each other, Newt especially. He isn’t subtle.

 

They stay there for hours, basking in the warmth of the fire and chatting with friends. They get to know a few of the new people. Vince gives a speech welcoming everyone to the haven, promising them all the safety and security they’d been craving for the longest time. Everyone raised a glass to their lost loved ones, began carving names into a memorial stone. It’s a comforting night, like a reintegration to a home they thought they’d never see again. It isn’t the same, of course; nothing ever could be. They would never see their families again, they would never go back to how they had been as children, before everything. Before the Flare, before the Maze, before the Scorch. Before all their trials and tribulations. But this new life, fresh start, feels inviting and wonderful.

 

Everyone goes to bed around ten, save Thomas and Newt. A med-jack had signed them off earlier in the evening, assuring them they were both in good enough health to sleep somewhere outside the medi-tents. They’re assigned a shack on the far side of the island, a little way past the site of the campfire. There are a few more shacks surrounding it, but they seem as yet unoccupied. Newt takes Thomas’ hand to walk over there, after Minho and Bren hug them goodnight and meander off to their respective beds.

 

The sounds of the island surround them, but they’re more focused on each other. They can hear snippets of conversations in the nearby residences, as well as crickets and birds. The sounds of life. Thomas feels blessed.

 

“Tommy… The letter. Do you want to hear it?”   
“Sure.”

 

They glance up at the night sky, spotted with stars and a moon that illuminates their new personal heaven. Newt stops outside their shack, lying flat on the ground to gaze at the clusters of constellations. Thomas joins him, groaning a little as the wound in his stomach aches dully. Newt takes his hand, squeezing it for comfort.

 

“I’d follow you anywhere, Tommy. From the moment you ran into that bloody maze, I knew. And I have. I’ve followed you through absolute torture and I don’t regret it for a second.”   
“Newt…”   
“Still talking, Tommy. I don’t regret it, because knowing you is the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time. And knowing it’s you that’s, well, saved my life I s’pose, it means a lot. Because I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, and it seems you’d do the same for me.”   
“Newt, hear me out.”   
“Is this going to depress me?”   
“I hope not.” He smiles back gently. “When I was in the tent, Bren came in. She told me about you, and Teresa. And it was like… a weight was lifted from me to know you were alright. And she asked me if I love you.”   
“Oh.”   
“I do.”

 

They turn towards each other, their eyes locking. Thomas sees a glint in Newt’s eyes, like stars reflected in dark glass, and he feels on top of the world. A galaxy lives in the boy across from him, and Thomas wants to explore it for the rest of his life. Newt smiles, a soft smile that Thomas has seen a million times before. A smile that, before now, he had never read as love. 

 

“You do what?” he smirks, a gleeful twinkle in his eye that is easily recognisable as the hint of mischief that Newt only lets slip when times aren’t dire.   
“Love you. I love you, Newt.”   
“I love you too.”

 

Newt rolls towards Thomas, bringing an arm to rest on his chest and an arm around his waist. He’s methodical, gentle, cautious to avoid the wound on Thomas’ abdomen. Thomas lifts his head slightly to nuzzle into Newt’s hair, breathing him in. The traces of the Flare that had tainted the boy were gone. 

 

Thomas remembers when he first noticed the changes in Newt. It wasn’t behavioural differences he saw first, or the blackening of his veins. It wasn’t the way his face had greyed and his eyes had drooped. The first thing he noticed was that, when they hugged, Newt didn’t smell the same. It sounded weird to say, Thomas knows. But the two of them have always been close, and when either one was upset the other would hold them until they felt strong enough to face the world again. Thomas’ favourite thing to do was always the bury his face into Newt’s shoulder or hair and just breathe, the familiarity of his dusty, rain-tinged scent bringing him back to reality. When he go the virus, that went away. The smell of clean, fresh rain became salty, like tears, or the ocean, and the dust started to smell like soil. He smelled like a washed out, dirty version of himself, and Thomas hated it. It’s what first made him sense that something was awry.

 

“Thank you.” Newt murmurs, catching Thomas’ attention.   
“Hmm?”   
“For… this. For being my friend. For helping me. For saving me.” he pauses, as if mulling over whether he should finish verbalising his train of thought. “For loving me. Thank you.”

 

Thomas knows that this place, this haven, is called Paradise, but it wouldn’t be without Newt. Newt is the glue that holds him together, holds their whole world together.

 

“Nah. Thank you for saving  _ me.” _

 

They lie together outside the tent for hours, watching the paths of the travelling stars. The wonder in each of their faces is minimal compared to what presented itself when they tear their eyes away from the sky and towards each other. 

 

A while later, they move inside the cabin to settle down in the beds, curling close to each together like they never wanted to let go again. They’ve both come far too close to losing each other to let go now.

 

They’re woken in the morning by light streaming through the entrance, and the beaming faces of their friends. They take in the sight of Brenda and Minho, and the sun rising over the horizon, reflecting off the sea to create a landscape of pure beauty, and they take in each other. They look at messy morning hair, bleary eyes full of sleep, half smiles spreading to full on grins when they make eye contact, the sight of their legs tangled together and arms around each other’s waists. That’s when they decide.

 

This place truly is paradise.


End file.
